


Anti-kink: Coming in pants

by ash_carpenter



Series: Anti-kink [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:07:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1237654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ash_carpenter/pseuds/ash_carpenter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Next instalment in my anti-kink series (archived <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=ash_carpenter&keyword=Anti-kink&filter=all">here</a> on LJ). </p>
<p>An opportune slash fic or two prompt Sam to consider how hot it would be to get his brother lose control for him. Unfortunately, his 'brilliant' plans to indulge in this kink without letting Dean in on the secret are inexplicably unsuccessful...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anti-kink: Coming in pants

**Coming in pants**  
  
  
Sam blamed fanfiction, really.  
  
See, he hadn’t been quite as surprised about the Supernatural slash fiction as he’d represented to Dean. Oh, he’d been a little shocked to see his own name on a screen, especially sandwiched so intimately next to Dean’s (and Cas’, and Bobby’s and Dad’s...and, gross, so not going there), but the concept itself hadn’t been exactly alien.  
  
Buffy and Angel had been pretty big during his college years and, seriously, Spangel was hot!  
  
All of which he’d obviously deny to his dying day. But. The fact remained that, through absolutely no fault of his own, he’d developed a bit of a kink for the idea of loss of control – specifically as it related to his partner coming before he’d even managed to take his clothes off.  
  
The thought of Dean getting so turned on that he just unloaded in his jeans was damned sexy; Sam had jerked off to it more than once (albeit last time to the annoying soundtrack of Dean through the bathroom door asking why the fuck Sam was bringing himself off when Dean was right there, the enormous freak).  
  
Sam kinda doubted that Dean would share his enthusiasm for the kink.  
  
Hence his new undercover mission: Operation Shorts Spray. It was simple; all he had to do was make Dean come in his pants without revealing his intention to do so. How hard could it be?  
  
Of course, the aid of alcohol was a no-go, as it tended to make his brother last much longer than usual. Almost to the point of boredom, in all honesty, if he’d had enough to drink. No, Sam would just have to rely on Dean’s natural attraction to him...  
  
Hrm. And maybe a teensy weensy hint of aphrodisiac.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
“Dude.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Dean looked down at the groceries that Sam had purchased, raising an eyebrow. “Since when do we buy avocados, olives and arugula? And _oysters_ for fuck’s sake? If I’m gonna swallow down something slimy and salty, you’d better believe I want some hot loving in return.”  
  
“Uh...No reason. Is it a crime to eat healthily? And dude...Hot loving?” Sam asked incredulously.  
  
“Shut up. Anyway, this shit isn’t what _healthy_ people eat; it’s what upper middle class douchebags eat! Next you’ll be buying fucking pâté and insisting that we take mini-breaks in Vermont and wear sweaters and golfing pants.”  
  
“It’s a jar of olives, Dean. You wanna maybe stow the hyperbole?”  
  
Dean glared at him. “You’re goddamned lucky I don’t know what that means.”  
  
Rolling his eyes, Sam made them lunch, tuning out Dean’s continual whining and forcefeeding him olives and avocado sandwiches until he complained that he was feeling gassy. Which, as it turned out, was a fairly accurate assessment.  
  
Even with all the motel windows open, Sam had to admit that the ambience was less than sexy. Considering that vegetables had caused the problem, it was quite disturbing that Dean smelled like he’d eaten half a rotten cow.  
  
He definitely needed a Plan B. Tomorrow. When his brother would hopefully be a little more agreeable and a little less toxic.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
“Hey, there,” purred Sam as he straddled Dean’s lap on the tiny, lumpy sofa.  
  
“Hey yourself,” replied Dean, voice instantly dropping an octave and rumbling out of him sex-husky and as throaty as the Impala’s engine. Fuck, he was easy: zero to horny in two seconds flat. Which would hopefully make Sam’s job simpler.  
  
“Thought maybe you could use a break,” murmured Sam, not adding the slightly indignant ‘from pretending (badly) to research’ that he was actually thinking.  
  
“Always happy to take a _break_ ,” agreed Dean, emphasising the last word just enough to make it sound like the filthiest idea ever invented. He bucked his hips up and ground his rapidly filling erection against Sam for good measure. Just in case he was being too subtle, presumably.  
  
Dean cupped Sam’s face and drew their mouths together, giving a surprised little groan as Sam instantly licked his way inside, bearing his hips down and rotating them firmly in a way designed to get his brother hot in a hurry.  
  
They kissed and rubbed off on one another, Dean grabbing Sam’s hips and throwing his head back with a moan when he started fucking against him faster, deeper and dirtier. The friction against his cock, practically chafing from the denim, was a little overwhelming and he could feel sweat sliding over his ribs inside his tee.  
  
“Fuck, you’re enthusiastic today, Sammy,” commented Dean with an appreciative growl, reaching for his brother’s belt buckle.  
  
“No,” snapped Sam, slapping Dean’s hand away.  
  
“Uh...okay,” frowned Dean, confused. He relaxed back against the sofa for another minute or so, hitching his hips up and gripping Sam’s shoulders when he started nipping and sucking at his throat. It was a major erogenous zone for him, and made him even more ready to get the show on the road.  
  
“This would go a little easier if we weren’t wearing clothes,” murmured Dean, sliding his hands back down to the front of Sam’s jeans.  
  
“Stop it!” demanded Sam, trying to wriggle out of Dean’s grasp. God, his stupid big brother was trying to ruin everything! And it had been going so well! Dean was rock hard against him, panting lightly, and clearly wanted to get off... “I don’t want to fuck right now.”  
  
“You don’t?” questioned Dean incredulously. His hands tightened almost painfully on Sam’s thighs when his little brother’s clothed cock slid agonisingly slowly against his own. “Then why are you dry-humping me like a Chihuahua with a slipper?”  
  
“You’re calling _me_ a dog? Really?” Sam glared at him, pushing his hands away again when they took another try at his pants, seemingly of their own accord.  
  
“Are we fighting?” asked Dean, bewildered.  
  
“Not yet, but you’re doing your best,” huffed Sam. “Just...stop trying to take my clothes off, okay?”  
  
“Excuse me?” Dean looked at him like he’d grown another head. “You come over here and interrupt my _vital_ research, start grinding on me like a lapdancer reunited with her favourite pole, and then I’m not supposed to try to take your clothes off? Wow. You really have turned into a woman.”  
  
“My God, you’re such a chauvinist!”  
  
It occurred to Sam that the situation might have gone off the rails. Also, he was aware that he wasn’t doing himself any favours in _not_ looking like a completely irrational, possibly pre-menstrual girl with comments like that.  
  
Dean agreed, apparently.  
  
Sam squawked as he found himself tipped onto his ass on the floor, Dean levering himself off the sofa and stomping off to the bathroom. “If you’re gonna be a bitch about it, I’ll just do it myself!”  
  
Sam groaned and put his head in his hands. Well, that had gone just swimmingly. Now he had a hard-on that wouldn’t quit and his chances of getting Dean to help him out with it were slim to none, with a side of “are you fucking kidding me?”  
  
Time for Plan C.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Plan C wasn’t really all that different from Plan B, although Sam flattered himself that there were nuances.  
  
One of the most important nuances being that Dean’s hands needed to be out of commission. But, you know, not in a handcuffy-type way, because Dean didn’t really like it and Sam _definitely_ didn’t like getting smacked in the nose, so. A nice, friendly bit of wrist-restraining to go with the dry-humping.  
  
No problem.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“What does it look like I’m doing?” returned Sam playfully as he crawled up the bed to where Dean was leaning against the headboard.  
  
“Well, it looks like you finally wanna put out. But appearances can be deceiving.”  
  
Ignoring his flash of annoyance at his sarky big brother, Sam tugged his legs so that he slid down onto his back, draping himself on top. “Less talking, more kissing,” he demanded, fitting his mouth against Dean’s and slipping him the tongue.  
  
Momentarily reeling from the sudden attention, Dean nevertheless got with the program quickly and wrapped his arms around Sam, arching up against his weight. He frowned as his wrists were grabbed and held down on the pillow next to his head, his brother wrapping his thighs around him for good measure and fucking against him. Okay, kinky...Dean could work with that.  
  
Within a few minutes, Dean found himself aching in his jeans, straining to rut against Sam, and more than ready to strip and get someone’s dick in someone’s ass. He tried to pull his wrists free in order to get his stellar plan in motion, and raised an eyebrow when his brother simply transferred them both into one tight fist and then dropped his other hand down to insinuate distractingly between their bodies.  
  
“Ungh,” commented Dean ineloquently as Sam started pawing his cock as he humped against him with a full-body motion. He was sure he’d been going to say something more useful, but it was a little hard to concentrate.  
  
Right, now there really needed to be nakedness. Partly because he was so fucking horny that his eyes were rolling in his skull, but also because the hard rub of denim against his shaft was starting to chafe like hell.  
  
“Sammy...Sam...” Dean wriggled, pulling one of his wrists free and shoving at his brother, trying to roll them over.  
  
“No, Dean.” Sam shook his head, trying to snatch his hand back, knocking their hips together harder and kissing him determinedly. “Come on...”  
  
Dean shot him a ‘what the fuck’ look. “Come on? I _am_ coming on. What the hell are _you_ doing?” he asked. “What’s with the self cock-block, you freak?”  
  
“I’m not!” snapped Sam, his outrage distracting him for just long enough for Dean to reverse their positions, rolling them over and running his hands all over him. As he bit and mouthed over Sam’s jaw, he somehow managed to work one hand down the back of his jeans and start popping his button fly with the other. Any protest Sam might have had flew out of his mind.  
  
Before Sam knew what had hit him, Dean was working their slick dicks together, jeans around their thighs, and he found himself mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like “fuck, unf, yes, you’re a sex God” (although it couldn’t possibly have been something that embarrassing) while slamming his hips up into Dean’s hot, rough fist.  
  
Within a much shorter time than either of them would admit to, they were blowing their loads all over each other’s sweaty skin, cursing into one another’s mouths with their legs tangled together.  
  
“Fuck,” breathed Dean, rolling off his brother and sighing contentedly.  
  
Sam looked down at their crotches, trying to control his ragged exhales, eyes sleepy and glazed. While there were spots of cum on Dean’s jeans, the endeavour could only really be described as an epic fail. Damn it!  
  
Plan C sucked.  
  
No, wait, it wasn’t Plan C’s fault. It was Dean’s.  
  
“What are you scowling at?” asked Dean, reaching out to smooth a thumb over the line between his brother’s eyes.  
  
“You’re such a jerk.”  
  
“I’m a...” He blinked in affronted surprise. “Well, you’re _welcome_ for the orgasm, you ungrateful little bitch,” growled Dean, rolling off the bed. What the hell?  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Plans D through J, while clearly brilliant, were also thwarted by stupid Dean and his stupid insistence on wanting to be naked all the stupid time.  
  
Sam thought he’d cracked it with H, tackling an unsuspecting Dean in the dingy corner of some dive bar where he _couldn’t_ get naked, but he’d somehow found himself on his knees, banging his head on the underside of the table (which apparently had three decades’ worth of gum stuck to it) with his brother’s cock in his mouth. He couldn’t really decide whether Dean or tequila was to blame for that one, but they both tasted too good for him to be mad for long.  
  
Generally though, whether in the motel room, the Impala or – memorably – in a small town public library, all the plans ended up much the same as B. Which was to say, they started off well, but mostly finished with Dean throwing a hissy fit about “goddamned cockteasing little brothers” and storming off in a huff to jack off. Fortunately, the librarian hadn’t pressed charges.  
  
(Not after she’d seen what Dean was packing and _no_ , despite what some asstard big brothers said, Sam had totally not thrown a jealous tantrum about the middle-aged, bespectacled librarian – who happened to be sporting a killer rack under her sweater – eyeing Dean’s prick like it was the last donut at a Weight Watcher’s meeting.)  
  
Fuckin’ librarians.  
  
Anyway, the point was that the Operation Shorts Spray was not the resounding success that he had hoped. Moreover, the repeated cases of blue balls were probably causing him massive physical damage or, at the very least, emotional trauma.  
  
Dejected, Sam reluctantly admitted to himself that it might be time to throw in the towel.  
  
And then Dean saved up a few spare brain cells and bought a clue.  
  
Granted, it was a fairly embarrassing clue that made Sam feel about two inches tall, but still. Halle-fucking-lujah.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Sam looked up questioningly as his laptop was pushed closed, almost trapping his fingers. Before he even had chance to pull a bitchface, he was surprised with a lap full of Dean, straddling him on the spindly motel chair.  
  
“So,” began Dean conversationally, slotting his hips _very_ snugly against Sam’s, “you know how you think I’m a complete idiot who doesn’t understand browser history?”  
  
Sam stiffened. “No...” he lied. He totally did think that. He couldn’t fathom any other reason why his brother would leave a trail of three hundred none-too-classy porn sites accessible in the history every time he went on the laptop. Sam _so_ hadn’t needed to know that Dean had checked out a website called [www.pantyclub4men.com](http://www.pantyclub4men.com/). Then again, he was also slightly disturbed about the number of sites with pie recipes that had started popping up...  
  
“Yeah, you do,” smiled Dean, rocking his hips shallowly against Sam. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I was playing the long game...? It’s taken a while for you to let your guard down, baby brother. You used to delete your history so religiously...”  
  
Sam gaped at him, sort of wishing that his dick wasn’t getting so hard. “You son of a bitch.”  
  
With a shit-eating grin, Dean ground down firmly against Sam’s lap, rotating his hips for deep, hard friction. “So, coming in pants, huh?”  
  
Sam blushed puce, ducking his head. Crap, shit, fuck! Why did he always underestimate Dean’s powers of deductive reasoning?!  
  
Still moving, a little faster now, Dean leaned close and mouthed at Sam’s ear, the scent of him pressing in on Sam’s senses and making him feel lust-dizzy. “You like that, huh? You wanna get me so worked up that I just blow my load before I can even get my jeans off...?”  
  
Sam made an inarticulate, garbled moan that was probably meant to be “hell the fuck yes”, sliding his arms around Dean and grabbing hold of his ass, pulling him even closer. Their cocks were hot, hard lines encased in denim.  
  
As Dean’s motions became more pronounced, the chair squeaking along the floor, he alternated between kissing Sam’s mouth and jaw and whispering damned filthy things in his ear. About what a hot little fuck he was, and how Dean was such a whore for him.  
  
It was horny as hell, and soon Sam’s dick was aching with a vengeance, reminding him that he’d been effectively cutting himself off like a massive retard (as Dean had pointed out more than once).  
  
However, ten minutes later it wasn’t just Sam’s dick that was aching. His legs were too. Dean was actually pretty heavy. And he was wriggling around like a bitch in heat, breath punching out of him in short, sharp gasps, but he wasn’t, you know, _getting there_.  
  
Panting, simultaneously trying to brush his hair off his sweaty forehead and rearrange his apparently four hundred pound brother, Sam blew out a slightly frustrated breath. “Dude.”  
  
“What?” asked Dean, hissing when Sam shifted forward and accidentally bunted his chin.  
  
“What’s wrong with you?”  
  
“What?!” Dean was so indignant that he seriously considered stilling his movement. And he probably would if Sam got any more annoying. In a minute.  
  
“The last time I did this with a guy –”  
  
“Oh, real nice, Sammy,” growled Dean. “Just bring up your past conquests while we’re fucking. Great idea; that’ll really get me in the mood.” He was so going to stop soon.  
  
Ignoring him, not bothering to point out that it had actually been conquest, singular, for this particular activity, Sam blurted, “He came in like five minutes! What’s taking you so long? I mean, you’re not _that_ old...”  
  
Dean made a snorting, huffing sound, as if he couldn’t decide if he was more amused or more pissed off. “Are you complaining because I have too _much_ stamina? You don’t normally mind when I’m pounding into your ass half the night...”  
  
“This is different. Maybe you need, I don’t know, Viagra or something.”  
  
“Dude!” This time, Dean actually did stop, eyes wide, wounded and furious. Sure, he started up again after a three second pause, but he felt that his point had been made. “Just ‘cause I’m not on a hair trigger like your little college twinks...”  
  
“Just ‘cause you’re too old to get the job done efficiently...”  
  
If Dean hadn’t been about two minutes away from coming, he would totally have got up and pushed Sam off his chair, the little shit. However, both of them got hotter when they were fighting, and the dry-humping had really stepped up a notch, their groins rubbing heatedly together and the chair protesting noisily as it was bounced along the floor.  
  
“I’m gonna hold you down and fuck you until you’re _begging_ ,” Dean rumbled into Sam’s ear, biting down on the lobe at the same time as he tugged sharply on his brother’s hair.  
  
Sam lost it.  
  
The orgasm took him by surprise, although it shouldn’t have considering how desperate he was and the way that Dean had been quite literally rocking his world.  
  
“Fuck!” yelled Sam as bliss roared through him, bucking up hard enough to bounce Dean a few inches into the air. As his pelvis slammed back into Sam’s thighs, Sam still pulsing hot jets of spunk into his jeans, the chair finally gave up the ghost with a loud ‘fuck you’ kind of a crack, spilling them both onto the floor in a tangled heap.  
  
Sam groaned, not sure if it was because his now five hundred pound brother had just face planted into his chest or because his dick was _still_ shooting two weeks’ worth of cum into his already soaked pants.  
  
Dean rolled off him with a loud curse, trying to avoid getting splinters. Not quite sure whether the pain from the fall or the demanding buzz from his rock-hard cock was more pressing, Dean cracked an eye open and looked at Sam.  
  
“Dude. Your kinks suck.”  
  
Too orgasm-glazed to move, Sam said lazily to the ceiling, “Yeah, ‘cause ice and wax and screwing in the Impala were _so_ successful.”  
  
Irritated to have his few, very minor, mishaps thrown back in his face, Dean glanced at Sam’s crotch. “You look like you’ve pissed yourself.”  
  
Sam thought Dean was probably right, although he couldn’t be bothered to look down. It certainly felt as though it looked that way; he was all slimy and wet, and now that the first warm rush was cooling, it actually felt pretty gross. Denim clung to his sensitive skin, chafing. He grimaced.  
  
Dean was leaning in for a better look. “Seriously, dude, how fucking long has it been since you jacked off? You just came like a...a horse or something. There’s like a pint of it.”  
  
“Are you calling me a stud?” grinned Sam, feeling pretty masculine all of a sudden.  
  
“Did you miss the part where you look like a toddler who couldn’t make it to the potty in time?”  
  
“Shut up!” Okay, slightly less masculine now...  
  
Dean’s face suddenly got all nostalgic. “Hey, do you remember that time when we were at the fair in Big Spring and you had those two huge sodas and –”  
  
“Oh God, Dean, shut the fuck up! Please!” Sam groaned and finally found the strength to roll over. He was _not_ reliving the single most humiliating experience of his childhood while he had a lap full of spunk from fucking up against his brother. And, wait, how had this all gone so horribly wrong?  
  
As if reading his mind, Dean ran a palm absently over his crotch and said, “Wasn’t I supposed to be the one coming in his pants...?”  
  
With a vague, mumbled insult, Sam staggered to his feet, making a face of disgust and trying to walk to the bathroom in a kind of John Wayne hobble.  
  
“Little premature there, Sammy?” Dean continued mercilessly, chuckling away to himself. Oh yeah, he was gonna get some mileage out of that.  
  
Still...Amusing though it was, it didn’t really solve the problem of him being all up and ready to go while Sam had already upped and gone. “Hey! Get back here and finish the job.”  
  
“Screw that,” returned Sam disinterestedly as he stripped out of his sodden jeans. “Shower then Laundromat. Stat. You can stay here and try to fix the chair.”  
  
Dean cast a glance around at the kindling that had formerly been a perfectly good piece of furniture, letting his head smack back down on the floor. “Freakin’ fantastic.”  
  
Vanilla was looking more and more appealing every day.  
  
  
  
THE END


End file.
